Harry Potter Rewritten: The Stoned Philosopher
by GirlGoingSolo
Summary: In which Harry steals Aunt Petunia's credit card, takes credit for a lot of stuff he didn't do and hits on Pansy Parkinson, Draco is  accidentally  the hero and fights Harry for Pansy, Hermione falls hoplessly in love with Harry and Ron gets people drunk.
1. The Boy Who, unfortunately, Lived

**Ok, so I thought I'd try my hand at some humor. If you're laughing, please make sure it's because you actually find it funny, not because my jokes are pathetic. **

**This story is to be followed by the rest of the seven books (rewritten and summarised) and my version of what happens in the Next Generation (in which Ginny becomes the New Dark Lord and Draco and Neville team up to save the universe).**

**Enjoy!**

Our story starts on a dull, grey Tuesday in September.

It was drizzling when Vernon Dursley awoke. The kind of monotonous, persistent drizzle that bedraggles sheep and makes you uncomfortably damp because you thought you didn't need an umbrella just to walk to the station.

Vernon hummed contentedly as he picked out a tie for work. Stripes? Polka dots? In the end, he settled for tartan. There was no better way to cheer up a boring Tuesday morning than wearing an exciting tie.

"Good morning, Petunia," he said as he made his way downstairs for breakfast.

"Oh Vernon, darling, _won't _you finish giving Dudley his breakfast? The Mayor of London called to place a last minute order and I simply _must_ be there on time."

Petunia was the founder of Petunia's Flower Emporium, the most successful florist chain in Britain, which provided flower arrangements for the likes of celebrity weddings and the Queen of England's garden parties.

"Thank you _so _much, dear," she gushed, pressing Dudley's Beef Casserole baby food into Vernon's hands and pecking him on the cheek.

She wobbled out of the room on patent four-inch heels. Vernon heard the car remote bleep, and a few moments later, the powerful roar of the Maserati's engine.

After scraping the last of the pre-digested beef casserole off Dudley's chin, Vernon scooped the boy into the baby seat in the back of his car and dashed back into the house to get his briefcase. As he returned, he noticed something strange.

A cat sitting on the wall, studying a British Roadmap. Wondering who would have left a roadmap on the garden wall of his expensive London townhouse, Vernon absentmindedly patted the cat on the head as he passed and murmured, "Good kitty."

The cat gave him a glare worthy of an early morning commuter on a packed underground train when the lady on the intercom has just announced there will be serious delays and you will probably be late for work.

Disturbed, Vernon hastily retreated to his car and started the engine.

After dropping a disgruntled Dudley at his daycare centre, Vernon parked his car on the very top level of the parking complex and inconspicuously stretched his hamstrings before he tackled the stairs.

One of the less desirable aspects of Petunia's wealth was that she was now obsessed with keeping fit. That was fine with Vernon. It was when she began to try and include _him_ in her nightmare regime of health that he objected. The objections had duly been squashed, and Vernon had (hypothetically) begun to adhere to a brand new fitness routine, designed especially by Petunia herself.

Vernon managed three out of seventeen flights of stairs, before checking that no-one was watching and taking the lift the rest of the way.

As he crossed the street to the orthodontist practise where he worked, he noticed some rather comically dressed people. Vernon smiled at the ingenuity of the young people of today in their charity fundraising schemes, and made a mental note to give them a generous donation on his way out.

He spent the morning happily advising customers on which colour braces would most complement their eyes, and marketing his new range of multicoloured ultra-flexible PVC toothbrushes ("for all those hard-to-reach corners!").

At lunchtime, Vernon left the building and headed for the nearest salad bar. Then, depressed by all the greenery, he made a sudden dart behind a pillar in case any of Petunia's colleagues were nearby, and shuffled surreptitiously into the baker's next door.

He bought two heavenly piping hot sugar coated custard doughnuts and a Danish pastry and crammed them into his suit pockets, then began to make his way back to the office.

Without warning, someone grabbed his arm. "Oh sir!"

Vernon started wildly. "No! No I tell you!" he cried, "It's just a salad! It's healthy!"

But the person wasn't listening. "You Know Who is gone! We are free! Rejoice!"

Vernon had heard of lunatics like this. Fearing for his life (and his doughnuts), he struggled to remain calm. "That's … wonderful," he said in a trembling voice. "Erm … go! Be free! Spread the good news!"

Before the lunatic could say anything else, Vernon pulled himself free and dashed for the safety of the orthodontist's.

He was so disturbed by the encounter, that he hardly noticed the owls swooping past in broad daylight. He merely commented to his secretary that there were an awful lot of pigeons around today, and pretended to write a few more prescriptions.

On his way home, he sent Petunia a message on his BlackBerry, asking how her meeting with the Mayor had gone. The message was not sent out of any particular desire to actually know how her meeting had gone, but rather to show off his new messaging skills. His pride was quashed approximately thirty seconds later, when he received her reply. After realising that it went on for four pages, he decided not to read it.

It was almost dark when he arrived home. He put Dudley to bed and peered nervously out of the window. That cat was still there.

Beginning to feel slightly fearful, he drew the curtains tightly and went and had a hot bath. The bubbles soothed him, and he fell asleep almost immediately that night. He was sure Petunia would never find out about the doughnuts.

Meanwhile, outside on the wall, the cat came to life.

In a distinctly businesslike manner, it folded up the roadmap and began to pace up and down on the wall. If it had had a watch to look impatiently at, it probably would have.

It stared through narrowed eyes at the street corner. Hours passed.

Then, quite suddenly, there was a loud bang and a cry of "Tally ho!"

Some dustbins fell over with a crash, and a muffled voice said "Damn!"

The man straightened up and strode forwards. He was very tall, with a long white beard and even longer white hair. He wore a sweeping turquoise cloak, fluffy grey sealskin boots and a bright yellow woolly hat, embellished with a purple pompom. His glasses were crooked, and he had a teabag stuck to his sleeve.

"Terribly sorry I'm late, Minerva," he said breezily.

He glanced at the cat, but it was gone. Instead, an austere-looking woman in emerald robes and a pointed hat glared up at him from the wall.

"You do realise it's past midnight, Dumbledore?" she said snappily.

Dumbledore shrugged unconcernedly and withdrew a Union Jack cigarette lighter from his pocket. "I was just up in the Alps doing some celebratory snowboarding, myself. How long have you been waiting?"

"All day actually," she sniffed. "And do put that lighter away, this is no time for smoking!"

Dumbledore ignored her and clicked the lighter. Immediately, all the streetlights went out. "Ah, much better," he said in satisfaction. "So. Where were we?"

Minerva sniffed. "_You_ were explaining why you've been frittering away your time in the _Alps _while I've been sitting on this brick wall all day."

"Well, I didn't _ask_ you to sit here all day. I'm only here to drop off the boy."

"Ah, the boy." Minerva looked at him expectantly. "Well? Where is he?"

"I've got him here."

Dumbledore began rummaging in his Adidas holdall. He muttered to himself as he tossed out a broken ski pole, half a banana, a bag of dog biscuits and a book entitled "Charming the Tibetan Yeti: a Taxidermist's Guide". Finally, he exclaimed "Aha!", and pulled out something small and rumpled, wrapped in a blanket. He presented it to Minerva.

The bundle was a baby. There was a livid lighting-shaped scar on his forehead and a tuft of ginger hair sprouted from under the cloth. His sleeping face was set in an ill-tempered scowl.

"Ah, what a pity about his parents," said Minerva sadly. "Such lovely people. Everyone is expecting great things of this little boy."

She smiled fondly. Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"Yes, well if you've quite finished, I've got important things to do, so you won't mind if I just sally forth and get this over with."

He strode up to the Dursley's front door and attempted to post the baby through the mailbox. When this failed, he resorted to placing the baby on the doormat and putting a letter on top of it.

"There we go," he said cheerfully, dusting his hands off. "Hopefully the foxes won't get him and these charming people will have a new son tomorrow morning!"

**So please review and tell me whether I should continue this!**


	2. The Vanishing Credit Card

**Ok, so here's chapter 2. By the way, if there's any pairings you want to see, please feel free to request them (I haven't really got any in mind, and Harry's a bit of a player). **

**Hope you like it!**

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their nephew on the front step.

In that time, many things had changed. For one, Harry was no longer ginger. His hair was now jet-black and his eyes a mouldy green colour.

Another thing that had changed was that the Dursleys (and Harry) had moved to Surrey. This change had been necessary, because Harry had begun to fall in with the wrong crowd. There was something about him that seemed to attract dustbin men, sewage workers and the occasional tramp. To Petunia's consternation, he would spend his days perched on a mouldering old skip (containing a broken toilet, some dead pigeons, and other less identifiable things in various stages of decay), throwing stones at passing cars.

Since moving to Surrey, this sort of behaviour had marginally decreased, but they still had constant complaints from Harry's school, concerning his attitude and bullying of younger students.

Still, as time went on things gradually got better, Harry stopped bullying people (and instead resorted to discreetly vandalising his bedroom door) and the Dursleys began to hope that perhaps Harry was a salvageable case after all.

It was on the day of Dudley's eleventh birthday that things took a turn for the worse.

"Harry? Are you up?"

Petunia rapped smartly on the bedroom door. Harry declined to answer and pulled the duvet over his head.

"Harry? It's time to get up!"

Irritated, Harry sat up and shouted "I'm not doing the bacon, if that's what you want!"

He heard his aunt sigh, before she answered, "No, of course not," and added in an undertone, "because you'd probably burn it."

"I heard that!"

She ignored him. "Breakfast is in ten minutes, and then we're going to the zoo."

Grumbling, Harry got up and pulled on his most holey tracksuit and a far-too-small t-shirt, and stomped down the stairs.

He sat down at the table in the kitchen, which was covered in presents.

"Good morning, Harry," said Dudley politely.

Harry simpered sarcastically at his perfect cousin, and said effusively, "Good _morning _Dudley! And a _happy _birthday to _you_!" Then, under his breath, he added "fatty".

Dudley was, unfortunately, anything but fat. With his nicely developing physique and stylishly cut blond hair, he was turning out to be precisely the son his parents had wished for.

Harry, on the other hand, was small, scruffy, and had the temperament of a sleep-deprived porcupine. He refused to wear his glasses and so was constantly walking into people, and then refusing to apologise.

He shovelled down more than his fair share of bacon, and watched disinterestedly as Dudley opened his presents.

"Time for the zoo!" beamed Aunt Petunia after breakfast had been cleared up.

Harry glowered. "Don't want to go to the zoo."

"Well, dear, shall we drop you with Mrs Figg then?"

"No. I'll stay here, thanks."

Vernon and Petunia exchanged nervous glances, but reluctantly acquiesced in order to avert a destructive Harry-tantrum.

Harry sighed in contentment as soon as the Dursleys left. He could finally do whatever he wanted.

First, he ransacked Dudley's room. After playing Lego Star Wars on the X-box for half an hour, he got bored. Why didn't Dudley have any _proper _games? Like Call of Duty, or Assassin's Creed?

He amused himself for a little while longer, somehow managing to break Dudley's air rifle and shatter an expensive vase simultaneously.

Then, shaking his head sadly, he made his way into Vernon and Petunia's bedroom.

The lure of Petunia's jewellery box was irresistible; he ran his hands gleefully through layers and layers of pearls, rubies and solid gold and even held some up to himself and admired them in the mirror.

Then, with a start of excitement, he noticed Petunia's handbag nestled under the dresser. Chuckling to himself, Harry plundered it.

Lipstick? No.

Romance novel? Boring.

Personal organiser? Nah.

Ah. Purse.

_Yes, _though Harry. To his delight, the purse contained fifty pounds in cash, and a platinum credit card.

He pocketed twenty pounds for personal use, and took the credit card.

It didn't take him long to work out how to use it.

Within two hours of booting up the computer, Harry had purchased a luxury Limited Edition Aqua Dial Rolex Daytona watch, a 90 inch plasma TV, a Strobel waterbed, sixteen playstation games (including Call of Duty and Assassin's Creed), an Apple Mac, two top-of-the-range air rifles, seven pairs of Levi Strauss jeans, nineteen pairs of Calvin Klein underwear (in assorted colours and styles), a pedigree rottweiler, twenty seven pure ground beef steaks, a hammock, a few palm trees for the garden (to go with the hammock), a deep-fat fryer, an ice-cream van, an iPod Touch, a Nokia 8800 Gold Arte, a sunbed, two hot tubs, a Bugatti Veyron, some Clive Christian No. 1 perfume in a Crystal Baccarat bottle with five-carat diamond, six Giorgio Armani t-shirts, a luxury sheepskin-lined black leather jacket and an Aston Martin Vanquish.

Harry reviewed his list of purchases with an appraising eye. _Something _was missing.

In a moment, it came to him.

Grinning, Harry googled, and subsequently purchased a Gulfstream G550 private jet. Pleased with his handiwork, Harry ambled downstairs, ate a slice of Dudley's (yet untouched) birthday cake, drank half a bottle of Coke and went to sleep on the living room sofa.

"HARRY JAMES POTTER!"

Harry sat up, disoriented. Someone was shouting very loudly. Near his ear.

He turned his head, and observed that Uncle Vernon had turned a nasty shade of maroon.

"Did you have a nice day at the zoo, Uncle?" he inquired pleasantly.

"YOU— I—" Uncle Vernon now looked rather alarming. He was pulling his own hair out, and his face had deepened to an unattractive purple. In the background, Harry saw Aunt Petunia shrieking hysterically on the phone and Dudley cowering in the kitchen doorway.

"What's the problem?" he said innocently, although he had a sneaking suspicion what all the fuss was about.

"YOOUU!" shrieked Uncle Vernon.

"_Me?_" exclaimed Harry, in fake surprise.

"DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH YOU'VE SPENT? OF OUR HARD-EARNED MONEY? _DO YOU KNOW?_"

"Well …" countered Harry, thinking quickly, "I hadn't bought Dudley a birthday present and I felt really guilty about it, so I decided to give him a nice surprise when he came home."

Words failed Uncle Vernon, and he tore furiously at his moustache, then collapsed in an armchair. Harry quickly poured him a large brandy and sat back to wait for all the hullabaloo to die down.

An hour or so later, Uncle Vernon recovered sufficiently to tell Harry that they had managed to cancel most of the orders (although the rottweiler, beef steaks and Calvin Klein underwear were now en route to their house), and that even though a crisis had been (mostly) averted, they were going to have to send him to boarding school, where he would cause less trouble (for them, at any rate).

Harry sighed as he lay in bed that night.

He had really wanted that private jet.

**Please review! I get bored if I don't get any. **


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